


I'm Here

by rxdiansa (YukitenTheDark)



Category: DmC: Devil May Cry
Genre: Comfort, F/M, Fear, Love, Neediness, Nightmares, discomfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-07-12 14:59:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7110358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YukitenTheDark/pseuds/rxdiansa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vergil often wakes in the night to toil away in silence, awoken by nightmares or his work. Bianca hates how it makes him behave, how he feels, so she tries.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Here

He always took such care so as to remind her of her importance to him, gentle, naked hands grasping marred skin, caressing, admiring, appreciating. And, often times, he had her on her knees, too hot to return the favor, breathing in his velvet scent, basking in the love he so expressed through motion. More so, he would have her begging, cooing his name in the shell of his ear, fingers tugging at silver strands. And while she was a mess beneath him most nights, while she enjoyed every bit of his dominating affections, this simply could not be the case tonight.

He’d spent the entirety of his day pacing their room again, brows drawn, lips curled, hands darting about, pinching his nose, as he thought of something, a weight so heavy, so unbearable seated on his shoulders. He’d been having nothing but nightmares the past few weeks, not to mention, and would often startle awake, breathing heavy, hands grabbing, pulling, holding so close the woman in his bed as if she’d disappear without a moment’s notice. And though he suffered so, he was silent, desperate to put his energy into meeting his goals, fulfilling his wishes.

She hated it. She hated that he’d wake in the night and grip so tightly, hold even tighter, breathing as if he’d lost. She hated feeling such helplessness translated into needy, fearful touches when her mate didn’t think she was conscious to feel them. She hated that he suffered in silence. She hated listening to ragged breathing, watching him pace to and fro, lost in the torment of his thoughts with nothing to serve as a lifeline.

And while he needed to feel these things, to experience them in their entirety, he didn’t need to feel them alone, so burdened by the will to conceal.

Now, as he sat back in the silver armchair before their bedroom window, leaning on the armrest with his chin in his hand, delving deeper into the void dedicated to the heaviest parts of such a complicated mind, one she so often found beautiful as it worked. It always brought a smile to her face to see his mind tick and tock with whatever he’d found fascinating in that moment, whatever project he’d been so diligently spending his time on. She loved that; the passion in blue, blue eyes as he tapped on his keyboard, stood with his head held eye. She loved it.

But as he sat here, so enshrouded in the darkness of her room like a ghost lost in time, there was no love for such a traitorous mind and all she could think to do was run her fingers along his scalp, rest a palm against his cheek and kneel before him in the hopes that he’d draw away from his despair. But she was here and he was there, so much distance between them, and while she wanted to cross the room to touch him, feel him, hold him close, she wouldn’t just yet. She didn’t want to startle him. She didn’t want to touch him without his permission. She didn’t…want to make things worse.

Gods she hated to watch.

And he was so unbearably silent, quietly toiling away, in the dark.

She shifted her weight, fingers pressing into the cold mahogony door frame, and let out a quiet sigh, alerting him of her presence. He made no grunt of acknowledgement, no intake of breath to repair a broken facade, no. He gave her nothing and it left her so…afraid, now. Vergil…

And so, she padded toward him, quietly, softly, carefully bridging the gap between them, doing just what she thought he needed now. Thin fingers reached for silver strands, gently brushing them from his clammy forehead and running through, palm finding his cheek. To this he responded with a breath, slow and deep, fingers dropping from a set, unshaven jaw. He was neglecting himself again…

To see him in such a state again–

“Vergil,” she called, voice hardly above a whisper. “Vergil…”

The man in question remained silent, but offered a simple lean into her hand, still so far far away. He was there, however trapped in his thoughts, cornered by his insecurities, drowning by his own hand. It was agonizing.

“Vergil,” she muttered again, resting her knee between his legs so she could come just a little closer. She rested her forehead against his own then, if only to plant a kiss to his nose, a peck only he could feel, and slid her fingers from his hair to his other cheek, tracing the bags under his eye. That stung too, a jab at her heart, quick and lingering. 

Her mate….

She breathed in that velvet scent and kissed him again, trailing, grazing soft lips against his skin as she covered all she could, all he would allow, until, finally, she met his lips. Please don’t feel like this. Again did she plant a kiss knowing he wouldn’t return it, but this is what she could do until he said her name, until he was ready to spill over with all the frustration, defeat, distress. To love and to hold, that was what she could offer now and she would with all her being, fingers cradling a strong jaw as lips so desperately called for him.

She would do her best to act as a beacon, to pull him out of his silent suffering, to pour every ounce of herself into him until he was ready to rest.

“Vergil,” she whispered against his lips, his silence so worrying, so frightening, so disconcerting, she was running out of words to describe how much she loathed to see him like this. There was nothing she could say that would comfort him; it made her sick. There was nothing, nothing, nothing she could say and it filled her with such a pain, she could only kiss him once more. “I’m here.”

And, reluctantly it seemed, he took hold of the fingers so firmly planted to his face and let out a long, harried sigh. His hands were bare and cold, so tightly holding her own now, and every ounce of her was filled with even more sadness. Stop neglecting yourself. She pulled back, just a little, to let him breathe, but he tugged on her hands, as if asking, gently, softly, for her to stay. And so, she did, kissing him a final time.

He returned it.


End file.
